Haunted

A voice called out to me from the emptyness of my bedroom at 11.55pm on Saturday. I'd been trying to get into 'Resistance 2' on plastation, but I really couldn't, because well, it is just a dumb game. I'd just gotten off the phone with a rather distant aquaintace (who I'd once upon a time found attractive) who was inviting me to 'go party'.    

The voice simply said 'Stay', 'please stay', 'you need to stay'.  

And at that point I knew it wouldn't be the brightest decision I'd ever make. 

but I went out to meet her to party.

I am a ghost. 

Last night Kim described this effect as being 'super vague'. But thats what I am - a person who should have been in his room coming to terms with the secondary fire functions of his weapon in Resistance 2, now standing at a bar with a pint in hand. I sink like a cannon ball, though webs and webs of small talk. I'm introdeuced to a girl called 'Zerol' ('zero' with an 'L'). I'm yawnning and choking on my own cigarettes in the smoking room. A guy called Reggie tells me about his burger wrapping job back in St.Kilda. An private banker from Morgan stanley jokes about the frailty of his career. Noel, the modeling agent is walking in as I'm exiting  to yet another bar.     

'This place is haunted' I tell a friend who's too preoccupied with his girlfriend to notice, "I was wondering why I hadn't been here in a while, and now I remeber." The motions come effortlessly,  swapping of business cards, chitchatting, throwing in a slightly curious adjetive before a common retort, smiling, hugging someone I'd only met twice, the cheek kissing, the swaying by a crowded bar while waiting for drinks, watching the ripples in my pint, looking un-preoccupied. Somehow everything is all alot more loaded. A look from a girl standing across the bar is enough to set me wondering myself into a conundrum. The cold rush of the aircon escaping past an exit that I used to bounce back in on, instead condenses a film of water on my back, causing my shirt to stick. The gyrrating crowd on the dance floor is thicker than usual and seems imprevious to a guy carrying three cocktails.     

By the time they find me, I'm normally on the dance floor, annebriated and thrashing my limbs to the music. I'm yelling over-enthusiastically trying to fit very simple emotions into catchy sound bytes. I'm prowling around an office meeting looking for annoyances. I'm secretly snarling at anyone who doesnt diredctly say hi or acknowledge my vague presence. I'm smoking - violently.  I'm rambling about how remarkably shit things are. I'm drunk. 

And then,  like magic, I'm back in my room, where a porno on television is the only lighting. Where I dream about the death of a boy and how his father had to sit on the coffin lid to prevent the stray dogs on the street from running off with more of his limbs. 

I'm sorry I guess.

The voice simply says 'told you so'.